


A duel

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Duelling, Gen, Wooing, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18642103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Noctians having fun.





	A duel

**Author's Note:**

> Orion belongs to Salmaka, I just borrowed him for a while =*

The first thing that the Ophirian fugitives had to get used to in Noctis was an entirely different timeline of activities.

Melvin has been deployed the most out of all currently present technomancers, and he’s used to the necessarily crepuscular way of living outside the domes. Activities in the city proper are not entirely confined to the twilight hours, but the most important of them are anchored to those hours. (Caravan time is different, more restrictive.)

Traditionally, caravans depart two-three hours before sunrise, while it’s still chilly, but not bone-cold.

There’s already a sizable crowd at the Docks by one of the elevators when Melvin gets there. He shivers, wrapping himself tighter in a short cloak, stifles a yawn—but soon his sleepiness is swept away by the energy of the crowd. Murmurs, occasional cheers fill him with a charge that sparkles at the tips of his fingers.

He makes his way forward, nodding to greetings, waving a hand—until he reaches Frances.

The Chief Guard is tapping their metal right foot on the grate of the elevator, arms crossed on their chest. They are already wearing the green—they mean business.

Mel glances from them at the scene on the elevator.

A magnificent ’sail has its wings only half-spread, and the Eye of Noctis, _Ocio_ , appears half-lidded, lazy in the very early morning. It’s one of the lighter sandsails, now stripped of cargo—nothing but speed given physical form, leaning slightly to the side on its only outrigger. Melvin isn’t sure what type of _ama_ it is, each week he finds a new outrigger configuration. The gondola and the _ama_ are all covered in black and white geometrical designs—a reflection of those on the skin of the sandsail’s owner.

The challenger to the streamlined vehicle doesn’t look like a powerful contender: it is a small board resting on the grate of the elevator several paces in front of the sandsail’s pointed nose, painted with markings entirely different to the ones on the ’sail, in magnificent Noctian azure and crimson and purple. A mast lies folded along the board, seemingly bare.

But Melvin has learned it is not only the vehicle that is important.

The flight is made by the union of the vehicle and the pilot, their mutual understanding, their care about each other.

The two about to sail are not ordinary when it comes to piloting.

They are also as handsome a sight as their vehicles.

Orion, Noctis’s Chief Mechanic, is a man short in stature—but people rarely notice that, because of how big his personality is. He overlooks the whole Noctian fleet, working tirelessly and mostly alone in the night shift, coming up with improvements and inventions, and threatening to throw a wrench at anyone who disrupts his solitude (his only company being his hound, Cassiopea).

Of course, mechanics are not necessarily good pilots—but if there’s someone on Mars who knows everything about sandsails—including how to pilot them most efficiently—it’s Orion. Even though, being largely a nocturnal creature (due to this he’s gotten his merchant name, _Pipistrello_ —‘a bat’), in several hours he will be at a disadvantage. The tattoos covering his forearms are all geometry, like blueprints and designs he comes up with for the ’sails. Early morning breeze caresses his short dark locks, his dark eyes intense on his challenger.

Orion’s opponent is not an ordinary pilot either.

Dandolo is considered one of the best Noctian pilots. He has decades (or, Melvin corrects himself, _seasons_ ) of caravan experience. He led caravans even through storms—a feat deadly, and discouraged in Noctis. The season of storms is the season when caravans—flying, ostrich, even those usually traveling by the Shadow Paths—stay put.

Dandolo has changed from the blues and purples of the Prince’s garments to the sand-coloured, close-fitting pilot gear—but it is, like most things about Dandolo, unorthodox: his considerable bulk, usually concealed by soft fabrics and smooth manner, is reinforced by flexible armour on his broad shoulders, his elbows and knees. Attached to the shoulder guard is a heavy collar—to which the protective helmet is affixed.

Orion has insisted on Dandolo wearing it.

While Orion is frowning—Dandolo has a slight smirk on his lips, green eyes gleaming bright.

At Melvin’s side Frances sighs, and he tears his gaze away from Dandolo.

“If they don’t quit posturing,” the Chief Guard grumbles, “the sun will rise before they set out. Of course, why would I care. The city would breathe freely without their constant bickering.”

Melvin takes it as a joke (though it might be hard to tell with Frances’s tone): Fran is Dandolo’s closest friend, and Dandolo and Orion, while having quite a rocky friendship, wouldn’t endanger each other.

“Who will be marking the finish?” he asks them.

Frances waves. “One of my guards. Let’s hope both of them get to the finish line intact.”

At last the two challengers break their glaring contest (Orion with a shrug, Dandolo’s smirk widening), and go to their vehicles of choice.

Orion leaps into the gondola easily—one wouldn’t think Orion spends most of his days in the underground parts of Noctis.

Dandolo bends to the board and pulls the mast into upright position, turning it until audible click, then kicks the board. It hums, hovering up a palm-width above the grille.

Melvin has never seen a hoverboard—a hoversail—in action.

Dandolo strides to Frances, picks his helmet from them. Melvin meets Dandolo’s gaze, and Dandolo smiles softly.

Dandolo puts the helmet on, fitting the braids under it, and returns to the hoversail. He jumps onto the board, and it doesn’t dip under his weight. He grips the rail— no, Melvin thinks it’s called the boom.

The elevator judders and begins its ascent, to bring the challengers up to the plains.

The duel is about to begin.

**Author's Note:**

> Orion has a very roundabout way of helping his absolutely-not-a-friend court the man of his heart.


End file.
